Where my demons hide
by huimoxxie
Summary: Sherlock has done something terribly wrong.


"You could have been killed!"

"What would it have mattered? It's about the Work, John! Whether I die or not in the process isn't relevant!"

"It isn't relevant?! I watched you **jump** off a fucking building before spending the next three years suffering from depression! Do not tell me your life is not relevant!"

"You know why I jumped off the building!"

"You know what _I've_ been through!"

"I thought we went over this!"

"Fuck that! You were nearly killed in front of my eyes. That is the second time since you've come back, it is unacceptable!"

"What are you going to do? Keep me under lock and key until I'm old and grey? **That** is unacceptable!"

"I. Watched. You. Die, Sherlock."

"Guess what, John? That's what people **DO**!"

The minute Sherlock said that, he wished he could have taken it all back. The look on John's face. How his face tightened minutely and became blank after his words. How his fist clenched so tightly on the sofa his knuckles turned white.

No words were spoken as John turned around to march up to his room. The sound of the door closing should not have been like _that_. So controlled. So quiet.

Sherlock closed his eyes, the feeling of anguish, of needing to tear, and break, and destroy overwhelming him.

A scream of fury poured out his throat as everything within distance was hurled at the wall and stamped on. Sherlock didn't think he had screamed quite so loudly or emotionally before. He screamed and bellowed, while cups, books and even the skull of his old friend, Victor, flew, shattered and broke.

_What did I just do?_

_When the days are cold_

_And the cards all fold_

"John?" Sherlock ventured hesitantly carefully as he peeked around the kitchen door. There was no response, as John, his head held high, continued making his toast.

"I made tea," Sherlock said quietly. John did not respond, picked up his plate and went to sit at the table in the kitchen. A slight lump came to Sherlock's throat. Even from the very first day, Sherlock had never eaten at the kitchen table and neither had John. They had some sort of unspoken agreement that the table would simply be there for Sherlock to throw his notes somewhere.

Even now, the table was littered with notes. John did not sweep them aside, as Sherlock would have done, instead stacking them up in a neat pile and put them in a corner.

Grabbing hold of a mug of tea, Sherlock carefully put it down next to the plate of toast. He had no sooner put it down than did John cram the last piece of toast into his mouth, tossed the plate into the sink and stalked off. Not once did John register Sherlock's presence.

The tea grew cold on the table.

_When your dreams all fail_

_And the ones we hail_

_Are the worst of all_

That night, John came home late. Very late. Even if John had dragged himself on his knuckles from the clinic, which he was not working at today, Sherlock checked, with his legs chopped off at the knees, he would still not be this late.

As the hours dragged on, Sherlock found that it was impossible to sleep. His mind was full of John and the expression he had made after Sherlock's words. He wound up, sitting in John's chair, his legs tucked under his chin, wearing his blue dressing gown, waiting for the sound of John's footsteps on the creaky stairs.

Finally, finally, John came home. His steps were steady, so he had not been drinking. The smell of fresh air and fall followed him in. Had he been outside all day? Sherlock dashed over to the darkened hallway.

"John?" he called.

The sound of the door closing answered him.

_Don't get too close_

_It's dark inside_

Sherlock tried everything to express his apologies. He bought flowers, making sure that they were John's favourite, but he found them on the kitchen table the next morning, when he had woken up to see John gone.

He tried to appease John by playing all his favourite songs at reasonable times during the day but he was decidedly ignored.

He tried to make John breakfast and dinner but, John ignored the presence of food that Sherlock had made. The tea always went cold and the food soggy. John didn't even come home for dinner.

John no longer talked to Sherlock. All questions remained unanswered and John ignored Sherlock's presence, looking through him as though he wasn't even there. The other half of the bed grew colder day by day and even when Sherlock buried his face in his pillows, the smell that was John was growing fainter as time passed.

Sherlock had followed John once to see where he went every day, rain or shine. He discovered that all John did was to go outside Saint Bart's and seat on a bench opposite the building and just stare at it. On the days when John had work, he would go to an abandoned building nearby and sit at a particular window. From there, he could see John carefully checking over his patients, laughing and talking to his co-workers but the minute he left, a blank mask would fall over his face and he would make his way to the bench opposite Saint Bart's to the wee hours of the morning.

He no longer followed Sherlock to crime scenes and Greg and the rest of the Scotland Yard had even become accustomed to John's absence.

No, this would not do.

_They say it's what you make_

_I say it's up to fate_

The very next time John went out, Sherlock followed. As always, he was in front of the building, staring blankly into space.

"We need to talk," Sherlock demanded as soon as he was within earshot.

Silence.

"How long are you going to keep this up, John? This- this act? Are you going to ignore me to the end of our days?"

John stood up to leave and Sherlock grabbed his arm. "We are going to talk, whether you like it or not." John immediately tried to twist his arm away but Sherlock grabbed hold even tighter.

"We're going home."

When they reached home, Sherlock made sure to lock the door and stowed the key away in his pocket. Up the seventeen stairs and John sat in his chair, staring determinedly ahead.

"You want to talk?" he asked and Sherlock's heart clenched painfully. It had been so, so long since he last heard John's voice. "Talk."

Sherlock wasn't even sure where to begin. He rubbed a hand over his face, thinking carefully.

"I'm sorry," he decided at last. "What I said, I went too far."

There was not so much as a flicker of an eyelid from John.

"I was… thoughtless," Sherlock admitted. "At the very least, even if I did not care for my own life, I should have at least thought about you and your concern for me."

"Damn right."

"I am not good at apologies, John, but I am truly sorry."

John turned his head marginally and he blinked twice before going back to his room.

_Your eyes, they shine so bright_

_I want to save that light_

Slowly, slowly, John came back to Sherlock. First, he ate the food that Sherlock made.

He listened to the mini concerts Sherlock gave, and nodded in appreciation.

He stopped leaving 221B as much.

He started coming onto cases with Sherlock again.

But it wasn't until the night John crawled in Sherlock's bed instead of his own to sleep, then did Sherlock know he was truely forgiven.


End file.
